Aunt Astounds and Doesn't

My Aunt leans over and quietly comments that she thinks I should write a book about how I survived growing up in the same house as my brothers. I look over at the brother who's present; it's his birthday, and he sits at what would be the head of the table except that the table is a round table, and I can only imagine that it is the head since he is the birthday boy. I am not exactly sure what Aunt B means. I assume she is referencing the obvious differences between the three siblings.

How could siblings turn out so different from each other?

I laugh and kind of brush off the comment, but Aunt B is fixated on me.

She references a family Christmas when her daughter who is some years older than me - between my brothers in age - came home from a night out with a neck-full of hickeys. My cousin had been out with my brothers and one of their friends. I'm still not exactly sure what my aunt is getting at, but from the tone I gather she's getting at something sordid.

Does she know?

I wouldn't care if she did. It was well over 15 years ago when I called a family (of the nuclear type) meeting and let the cat out of the bag: where I "confronted" my brother (not much of a confrontation because he admitted his "guilt" without protest).

I am an avowed victim of sexual abuse. I talk about it openly if appropriate, if asked. I joke about it. Part of my recovery consisted of blabbing away about it whenever I had the chance. I'm certain I scared a lot of people. It seems like such a 'big deal' to others. I'm over it. So, I don't care if my Aunt knows.

But, does she know?

Maybe my mom talked to her about it. Maybe my mom talked to her brother, my uncle, who in turn talked to my aunt. No matter how, it seems my aunt does know. Despite it hardly being the place to begin chatting freely about the skeleton that's not so much in the closet anymore, my aunt and I continue in private tones.

She shoots my brother a none too friendly look. "I mean you turned out so well. I really, really admire you. You are such a strong person."

I'm speechless. My aunt is almost 70.

How can someone almost 70 admire me?

When I recover from the weird compliment, I realise that I am currently in the position to ask a question about something I've wondered ever since I began remembering.

Someone called social services. I was 10 or 11 or 12. The social services woman knocked on the door, showed me her badge and asked if my mother was at home. The social services woman sat down with my mother and me and let us know that an anonymous person had called in a tip: that my brother was sexually abusing me. When I was 10 or 11 or 12, I denied it vehemently. My guts were wrenching.

They'll take him away.

Worse, they'll take me away.

How do they know?

"That's not true. I don't even know what you mean. Gross."

The social services lady believed me. My mother believed me.

I've often wondered who the anonymous person was who was trying to look out for me. I've sometimes thought it might have been my aunt.

It wasn't.

Grief Strikes

Jet lag awakens me at an ungodly hour when everything is silent except the almost imperceptible hum of the building's life force. I imagine that there must be clubs in the centre of town where people are dancing and sweating to the beat of some amped up rhythm. But, then, I remember I am in Middle America and most clubs would be long shut down at this ungodly hour, especially on a Monday. "No," I tell myself, "this time zone is asleep."

A railway line runs along the edge of Middle America. I don't know how how far away it is. Maybe five miles. Maybe fifteen. In the five or fifteen mile distance I hear the throaty foghorn of a passing train. It's a rumbling bass that from this distance is a whisper announcing that a train is running full steam ahead. You better clear the tracks.

Trains in the UK don't make that sound. Do they?

I think about the train's rumbling steam trumpet, a low wail that sound's nothing like a whistle.

Definitely 'horn'. Whistle is a misnomer.

I pull myself out of the bed that I am sharing with my mother and move to a sofa in the living room where I will put myself to thinking not of the sound of far-away passing trains, but of serious things.

My mother is grief-stricken. The days seem to pass normally with trips to the grocery store and lunches with friends and admiration for the golden sun-shiny days that come in the middle of winter. She gets ready normally for the normal like days. She bathes and drinks tea and puts on lipstick. She combs here hair even though she keeps it short since it's grown back. Short enough not to even need a comb. In short, she doesn't seem haunted or depressed or distraught.

She celebrates cocktail hour as she always does, with a martini. With dinner she drinks what is probably one glass too many of wine. Like me. She doesn't come to bed when I do. I'm suffering from jet lag. My eyes droop. I cannot stay awake any longer.

Later I am jarred awake by her sobbing.

I go to her and put my arms around her and tell her how sorry I am.

Like a crazy person she sputters out words that do not jibe with her apparent state of being.

"I ... I ... I ... am ... am ... so lucky. I am so lucky."

What the hell?

"I am so lucky you are my daughter."

She convulses with a new bout of sobbing and is no longer focusing on how lucky she is because she is my mother but rather on the gaping hole that her partner's death has left. She says she doesn't know how to go on, doesn't know if she wants to go on. Through her blubbering I hear her dark admission: she'd like to be with him.

I can't make it better. I can only wait and hold her hand.

Paranoia at T5

When I looked out the super-sized floor-to-ceiling glass walls of Terminal 5, I saw the gangway that was supposed to lead us to an aeroplane that would lead us Stateside. The end of the gangway was but a gaping hole like the open mouth of a moray eel gaping out of its coral reef.

Where’s our plane?

I wasn’t the only one to wonder at the empty space at the end of the gangplank. I overheard fellow passengers mutter, “Where are we going?”

I’m vain enough to think that I am the only one who imagined that we were lemmings waddling along our course and that we would get to the empty mouth of the gangplank where we would waddle right off the edge and onto the pavement below.

When the airline people took us down some steps and out a door and onto the tarmac, my fantasy changed. We would not waddle off a cliff and to our deaths. No the airline people have something more dramatic. We will follow the airline person with the fluorescent yellow jacket out onto the runway where we will be targets for taking-off and landing jets.

That didn’t happen either.

Instead, I made it onto the plane. watched a movie (Julia & Julie, which made me a little bit self conscious as a blogger), drafted some emails, and have only now realised that my eyes are dry and burning and I have no relief and 6 more hours to go before this aluminium can with wings alights at my destination.

Cleaning the Duvet

The week before our Christmas guests arrived, The Man spilled coffee on our duvet. It must have been a Saturday or Sunday morning.

When else would we be drinking coffee in bed?

The Man cursed. Careless mishaps get his goat in a big way. The resulting ire was less about the coffee on the duvet and more about the carelessness that resulted in spilt coffee. The Man has high standards for himself; he does not tolerate self-carelessness lightly. Things like forgetting his keys or dribbling pasta sauce down his freshly pressed shirt induce seemingly exaggerated responses.

When the cursing had subsided, I mentioned that the duvet probably needed a cleaning anyway; I'd take it to the dry cleaner.

The dry cleaner said the duvet would be ready for pick up in 4 days time. In the meantime, The Man and I could use either the new guest duvet or our previous duvet, which had been downgraded to sofa use. We wouldn't have dreamt of using the old guest duvet, which had been relegated to the bottom of our blanket box – there had even been talk of converting it to canine use.

Four days later our duvet was not at the dry cleaner. The dry cleaner till attendant scratched his head at the mystery of it. He made a phone call and spoke in heavily accented (origin indiscernible by me) English. The duvet would be ready the next day.

What if it's not?

I only then started to think about timelines and customer (guest) requirements and risks and contingency plans. We were expecting 3 guests: my yet-to-be-worldly-something-cousin, CBF, and the Hijastro*. Four beds, four duvets if all went well.

But what if the dry cleaners fucks up?

We've got plenty of time.

Something-cousin arrived first. He got the proper guest bed and back-up duvet. CBF arrived next. We gave her our old duvet to use on the sofa. With each day that passed, I visited the dry cleaner to inquire about our missing duvet. Each day, my anxiety grew. On the day the Hijastro arrived, our should-be-clean duvet still had not arrived. This time it was a woman at the till; also with accented English; from Latin America, I was sure. I must have been biting my lip with concern because she asked if it was urgent. I tried to play it cool. "It's just that my god son arrives today, and we have no spare sleeping materials. " I paused as I wracked my brain. "I suppose he can sleep under towels."

She looked dismayed. "I see what we can do. Give me your number. I call you."

15 minutes later the phone rang. A proper British accent introduced the caller as the manager of the dry cleaning shop. She apologised profusely for the missing duvet. It would not be possible to return our duvet in time for the arrival of our godson, but the dry cleaner manager proposed a work around. "I live around the corner from you and happen to have a duvet that was recently cleaned. It's still in the plastic wrapping and everything. If you wouldn't mind using it, I can lend it to you for the next couple of weeks."

And I thought North Americans were the experts in customer service**.

*God son.

**And political correctness. This ad would never pass the pc police in North America.

Help Me

Request for technical assistance:

My laptop has recently been upgraded to Windows 7. Since then, I have not been able to upload photos, which I'm sure you can imagine causes me a considerable amount of consternation.

I have tried: Firefox and IE.
I have tried changing my Windows firewall settings.
I disabled all normal and safe security measures (for a temporary period of experimentation only).
Internet connection appears fine.
I did try to upload to a Flickr account. That didn't work either.
I am now at a loss.

A painful workaround has been identified; but I would love to be able to post pictures again the easy, old fashioned way.

Gun Street

Sometimes very early in the morning I alight at the Marble Arch bus stop on Park Lane. Before the bus stops to let me off, I run through my choices: do I go over or under, stay on, or head back? These are the choices I have to get where I’m going. I am not going any place complicated, just across Park Lane into Mayfair; but my choices this early in the morning have unique advantages, disadvantages and danger.

The Marble Arch bus stop on Park Lane is almost directly in front of Hyde Park’s Speaker’s Corner. Park Lane’s busy six lanes stretch along the Eastern edge of Hyde Park from Speaker’s Corner on the North to Hyde Park Corner to the South. A green and manicured median separates the 3 lanes heading north from the 3 lanes heading south. In short, Park Lane is a wide, busy thoroughfare, and I put some thought into its crossing.

Going Under

I normally eschew the convenient pedestrian subway, the entrance of which is directly at the bus stop. At this time in the morning there aren’t many people about. The subway tunnel might have a vagabond sleeping under layers of donated blankets and salvaged cardboard. Or, the vagrant might have been already chased off by the early beat police. The tiles used to construct the subway and the fluorescent lighting make me think of New York and the summer of the Son of Sam. The tunnel feels dangerous for a woman on her own at an overly early or late hour. I can’t help but think of the rape scene from the film Irreversible. It is a strong, extremely disturbing film. I do not know if I recommend it. Probably not.

Going Over

I didn’t realise this was an option until last week. I noticed a cross walk where I didn’t know one had existed. The cross walk leads across the first three lanes to the manicured median. The trail comes to an abrupt stop with 3 lanes yet to cross. You have to wait for a lull in the traffic and run across when you think you have enough time. At this time in the morning the traffic accommodates this scampering across the road activity; still, I find it uncomfortable. I like a proper path through traffic.

Head Back

What I used to do before I ever rode the bus with The Man so early in the morning, was walk back the way the bus had just come from until I reached the official, fully functioning cross walk that cuts across what I deem to be the most ridiculous war memorial in creation* and into the heart of Mayfair. Heading Back is certainly not the shortest route to where I’m going; but there was a time (before the Man and I rode this way together) when I was perfectly happy doubling back for a safe street crossing option.

Stay On

The Man and I began an occasional co-commute. It was on these escapades that I discovered I could stay on the bus until it reached the Edgeware Road side of Marble Arch. I’m not convinced it’s any shorter than the heading back option (The Man is), but it does provide an easy street crossing route and the added bonus that I can stay on the bus for a couple of more minutes with my eyes closed in a pseudo sleep. Early in the morning, this is a nice thing.

Currently, however, road works have disrupted the Edgeware Road / Marble Arch bus stop. The bus carries on for another block before it opens its doors. This extra block gives me pause.

Go over or under, head back or stay on?

*The memorial for animals who have lost their lives in war. "They had no choice." Don't get me wrong; I love animals. This memorial is an atrocious slab of concrete where previously there were plants, grass, living organisms. To my way of thinking animals don't give a rat's ass about a memorial ... and all this particular monument does is add a little more concrete to the city.

Umbrellas Lost

I wake up to the sound of rain.

After days of snow, the rain sounds loud. Each pellet ricochets off the pavement with a little plink.*

Funny how not-so-distant cousins can be so different. H2O at one temperature mutes and muffles whilst a few degrees warmer, it amplifies and echoes.

I think about the fact that we haven't got an umbrella in the house. When we first moved to London, we bought two umbrellas - from the umbrella rack at the Boots shop on Tottenham Court Road just North of the Tottenham Court Tube station. We both chose mid-compact models: small enough for a large, relatively empty briefcase; too large for a standard lady's handbag. My Man opted for basic black; I chose a femininely blue-chequered variety, which lost its shape in the first strong wind of October 2001. Still, it did the job mostly. We acquired another umbrella when a bartender at the Pontefract Castle lent us an umbrella that had been left behind by previous patrons.

The blue-checkered umbrella was the first to go completely useless. It was lightweight and could only handle so many gusts of inside-outing wind. My Man's basic black umbrella stoically braced against bad weather. It took a beating like a champion and managed to protect against drizzle and downpours alike for many more years.

They both cost about the same. Sometimes you don't get what you pay for.

The stoic, black umbrella was eventually left in a "coffee bar" in Amsterdam.

The Pontefract Castle umbrella was the last to go. Like the femininely, blue-chequered Boots umbrella, the Pontefract succumbed by turning itself inside out; it, however, lasted many more years and storms in those years than its silly little girl of a cousin.

Since then we haven't owned an umbrella. So, when I wake up to the sound of rain, I think about what I'm going to wear; something that will not require an umbrella. Because we don't have one.

That's what I was trying to say.

I think about how I would have thought, before I had lived here and gotten a knack for the pace of the place, that to be a real Londoner you would have to have an umbrella. Real Londoners are prepared for the weather, I would have thought. Then I think about how my would-be previous thought is a total load of bunk. The more anal of Londoners are never far from their umbrellas. Other, just-as-real Londoners are so used to inclement weather that they no longer make an effort to protect themselves from clouds bursting overhead.

I remember an evening, not so long ago, of a trip to the theatre. It was a rainy night. 2 of the party and I, we walked umbrellalessly natural under ricocheting droplets. I think of those 2 and how they didn't bother with an umbrella, and I think Londoners come in all sorts; and I've become one because London is a city that lets you become a part of it - with our without an umbrella.

*That's a shout out to you, Beth.

Alka Seltzer Stirs Memory

I woke up at 2 in the morning. Under the duvet, I suffered in a small pool of sweat. I had eaten too much and drunk too much. I wanted some water.

In the kitchen I poured myself a glass of water. I drank half of it before realising how welcoming an Alka-Seltzer would be. As I thought about my desire for an Alka Seltzer, I heard a jingle in my head.

Plop. Plop. Fizz. Fizz. Oh what a relief it is!

I went to the bathroom to retrieve a little light-blue sachet in which relief is packaged. I returned to the kitchen where I emptied the contents of the blue sachet into a third of a glass of water.

I watched the little volcanic activity take place in my glass and laughed at myself.
I have always been impatient: I remembered as a child watching my father prepare himself a dosage of Alka-Seltzer. I had marvelled as he waited for the drink to settle down before he drank it. I wanted to encourage him to drink his magic bubbling drink.

How can he wait soooo long?

I waited for the bubbles of my current concoction to finish their explosions. I chugged down my medicine and trudged back to the bedroom where I hoped sleep would await.

Sweater Worn; Cold Wanes

Last night whilst preparing myself for this morning by choosing my outfit, I decided I would wear a favourite old sweater. I don't have much opportunity to wear the sweater because it's so thick and so hot that it is generally for days so cold we don't see them very often in London. This morning I pulled my favourite old sweater over my long sleeved v-neck t-shirt and realised that it's not only thick, but bulky big. I remember it was given to me in a stage in my life when I tried to hide my body with oversized clothes.* It's a sweater with some design knitted against a dark-red-slash-brown background. I noticed (possibly for the second or third time) that there are dark grey mis-shapened elephants trudging along the bottom edge of the sweater. I love elephants.

After I stuffed my arms into the arm-tubes of my overcoat, I waddled -- like Tweedledee or Tweedledum or the Michelin Man or the fat kid from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory after he gets all piggy -- out my front door and to the bus stop. My torso felt all warm and cozy. I thought about skiing and hot chocolate and jigsaw puzzles and elephants.

I knew that when I got to the office I would have to shed the red-brown elephant sweater. It would be too hot. It would be too baggy. Office people would wonder what I might be hiding. I imagined they would whisper behind my back, "Is she pregnant?" In the meantime, between home and office, I would appreciate my sweater.

At the end of the workday, after switching off my computer, packing up my things, and returning my water glass to the kitchen area, I looked at my sweater and knew that it would be too hot to wear on The Tube. Having not left the office all day, I wondered what the weather had done.

Will I have to pause at the other end, take off my overcoat and put on my sweater for the last jaunt home? How cold is it?

I didn't have to pause, take off my overcoat, and put on my sweater before walking home from my local Tube station. The cold is not as cold as it has been. I carried my sweater, fondly, in my hands.

*In age and confidence, I opt for tighter, more form fitting apparel.

Face Off Over Evening Out

The posh neighbours invited us over for drinks and canapés. I had seen them once since we had first been to their house. They had had a Christmas party at a local Mexican ...

. . . restaurant? Would you call it a restaurant? A tiny room upstairs with sparse seating and a wall length bar; an equally small room downstairs with more seating, but sofa style. A restaurant or bar or wannabe dive? Joint. I'll settle on . . .

... joint on the Kings Road. The Man was out of town so I had gone alone. Posh Man greeted me enthusiastically at the door; he took my jacket and introduced me to two or three people before turning to greet new arrivals. I spent most of the evening talking to a significantly surgically-altered Italian widow and wondering how long I would have to stay before it would not be rude to leave. Everyone seemed very nice, but on that night I wasn't in the mood to make the effort required to hold up my end of the small talk.

When I was ready to go able to leave without seeming like a boring old dowd, American Wife of Posh Man retrieved my coat and thanked me for coming. Posh Man and his American Wife are exceedingly gracious and stylish, and on that particular occasion, I will admit I was a little intimidated. It must have had something to do with the venue's Chelsea address.

I had checked with My Man whether he would want to go to the evening of drinks and canapés. In fact, I had checked and double-checked, because (a) I am not the type of wife who forces her man to attend social events; (b) I know My Man is particular about how he spends his spare time - I respect that; and (c) I knew I would rather NOT go for drinks and canapés than go alone, so if I was going to accept the invitation, I was going to accept for both of us. My Man didn't just agree to go. He positively encouraged me to accept. My Man is fond of Posh Man and his American Wife; they are interesting, well-educated people with a set of funny, international friends. "Sure I'll go. They're cool."

Unfortunately, on the morning of the evening of drinks and canapés, My Man took a dose of Night Nurse to address a bout of sniffles and a phlegm-y cough. Consequently he slept all day. As the hour for getting ready approached he regained semi-consciousness and sheepishly asked me if I would mind if he didn't go. The look on my face said it all, but in case there was any doubt I said it.

"Yes. I do mind."

I had only just recently recovered from sniffles and phlegm-laden cough myself. I suspected My Man was just less in the mood to go (groggy and tired) rather than out-and-out sick. I had no sympathy.

Who takes a product called 'Night Nurse' first thing in the morning anyway?

A tiny pang of guilt wrestled with my annoyance, serving to frustrate me more.

"If you really don't feel well enough to go, don't go." I might have said with a huff.

The Man pulled himself out of bed, put himself together, and in the end thoroughly enjoyed the drinks and canapés.

I will admit it wouldn't have been so bad to go alone.

Dillard Motivates

Annie Dillard is a writer I remember from my mother’s bookshelf. I never read her. I remember picking up a book, a thin book if I remember correctly; a book about a tinker and a pilgrim and a creek. Probably distracted by the pages of some other book, I never moved from picking up to reading the Annie Dillard book that sat on my mother’s bookshelf.

Later, when I harboured delusions that I was going to be a writer myself, I found and picked up yet another Annie Dillard book: The Writing Life. Again, I didn’t get to reading it. I did however store it amid my book collection where it eventually was transported from Middle, America to The Big Smoke, England.

Recently I picked up The Writing Life again and have actually started to read it.

The first thing I noticed was that amongst the pages was a receipt for the down payment I made in 1996 for my wedding dress. At the bottom of the receipt there’s my signature with each letter clear and consistently leaning to the right. My signature has changed over the years. It is sloppier than it used to be. Letters have disappeared. It’s as if I’m always in a hurry when scrawling out my John Hancock.

The next thing the struck me was a quote from Goethe that Ms. Dillard uses to preface the first chapter of her slender book on writing. It is a one sentence quotation containing 6 words, a semicolon, and a full stop*. On the surface of things it is a dispassionate, undemonstrative sentence; yet its pertinence to my modus operandi and the wisdom behind the words fills this short, obvious sentence with a personal poignancy.

"Do not hurry; do not rest."

I do not know where it started, whether it’s just my way of being or whether professional conditioning to get-things-done-fast has bled over from my work life into my personal life. The origin is immaterial. The fact is I am almost always in a rush. I am almost always splitting my energy and focus between two or three or four different tasks or topics. I am very rarely in the here, in the now. I keenly sense time slipping away, and this makes me rush, rush, rush to get things done today, today, today!

Why not tomorrow?

I get caught up in the speed and forget to slow down when slowing down is ok. I am impatient and rude to loved ones.

I imagine you, a sympathetic reader/friend, jumping to my defence, “No you don’t. You’re ok. Don’t be hard on yourself.”

To comprehend the generality, you need examples. Here are 3:

(1) When I talk to my mother on the phone, I put her on speaker so I can simultaneously check my emails on the laptop in the kitchen where I will also be peeling garlic and onions for subsequent chopping whilst darting back to my bedroom to prepare my travelling bags for the next day.

(2) When I discuss a customer issue with a team member, I sit and pretend to listen because I know the team member needs to get the fact that the customer is being a pain in the arse off his chest. Inside I’m dying for him to get on with it …

I know. I know.

... so that I can go back to my office and compose an email response to another issue and then talk to another colleague about a personnel issue (another conversation during which my mind will partially travel somewhere else, to other things that need doing, and I will wish that this colleague too would get on with it so I can go and call the customer who will bluster on and on, and I will half listen with the phone cradled between my ear and shoulder whilst I use my hands to tap out mails to address, escalate, progress, open or close item x, y or z).

(3) When I’m out walking The Dog after work and she takes too long sniffing her favourite tree en route to the park, I give her a (gentle) yank and snap, “Come on; let’s get to the park already.” When we’re in the park, and she stops to sniff the light post where numerous other dogs have peed, I moan, “Coooommmme on, Dog. We need to get home so I can feed you and then me, so I can have some time to read before it gets too late so I can get to sleep at a decent time so I can wake up at 5:05 with as little pain as possible, so I can get to the gym in time to get enough of a workout before I have to get to work where I need to …..

So it goes.

I get caught up.

I would benefit from less rush, more focus. Annie Dillard’s writing book, has given me a little mantra: Do not hurry; do not rest**.

* Period.
**It dawns on me that the 'do not rest' bit might not seem right; it's because it's been taken out of context; but I like to think it's like Voltaire's conclusion in Candide. On has to cultivate one's garden. Even though in the context of writing it's probably more related to momentum. The god damn quote is motivating me so don't ruin it for me by asking probing questions!

Balloon Above Mayfair Sighted

Most times I look for a post-appropriate photo. Like if I mention some place and I happen to have a photo of that some place, well then, it only makes sense to complement the post with the same some-place photo.

Right?

Sometimes I don't have a wholly appropriate photo. Sometimes there is only a vague correlation between my snapshot and my writing, oft-times a correlation that probably only I get. Sometimes I have nothing, and I just throw up a photo that seems similar in mood or tone or one that just happens to catch my fancy.

Here's the truth behind it all: my selection of a photo is down to the dumb luck that dictates what I'll be writing about on any given day. I have some photos that have been saved for ages as drafts in Blogger just waiting for the day when I will be inspired to write something with which they might jibe. Months pass; seasons change; and still I haven't written a post that's suitable for the shot of spring flowers in the formal garden section in the south east corner of Hyde Park. Or the metropolitan water trough. Or the coffee roaster in Harrods. Or the wholly inappropriate advertisement in the window of my local dry cleaners. All these photos have been waiting for their day in the sun.

I decide I will try to leave less to chance. My blogging has been all whim. I resolve to instill some discipline. Rather than writing about the first thing that pops to mind (usually something current and fresh in my mind rather than those isolated past moments in time I have identified as candidates for future posts -- moments I think should inspire, but have yet failed to), I determine to determine my writing. I will, at least as a temporary experiment, write to a photo.

You've failed miserably here.*

* This post should have been about the unexpected sighting of a hot air balloon over Mayfair.

New Years Starts with a Bang

Good morning.

Should I also say, "Happy 2010"?

I think I was ok last night.

I rub some sticky grit away from my eyes. I push my hair, which has matted itself to my forehead, away from my face. I open my eyes. All still dark. My mouth feels dry. I wonder if it's really as dry as it feels so I put a finger on my tongue.

Not quite bone dry, but almost.

I think it must still be the middle of the night.

Too early to turn on the laptop.

I edge over to the side of the bed, throw my legs over and pull myself upright. I sit there, on the edge of the bed, for a moment. I startle The Man.

"Are you ok?"

"I'm fine." I croak.

"What's wrong then?"

"I'm just going to get some water. Do you want some?"

In the littered kitchen I discover that we are out of clean water glasses and it's almost 700 a.m. I don't even consider washing a glass. There is one on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. It must be either My Man's or mine -- none of the guests in the house have cottoned onto the idea of retaining a water glass for more than one dousing. I fill the glass and start to chug the water. The water is going down like Niagra Falls. Midway through I need a break. I can't breathe. My heart shakes my insides with every beat. I gulp for air. I brace myself against the kitchen counter. I stand perfectly still and listen to my heart beat.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

I go in for the 2nd half of the glass of water. I down it and refill it for My Man. When I get back to the bedroom, he is asleep. Gray light is making its way through the curtains.

I replay the night to doublecheck if I was ok.

I didn't need to open that last bottle of champagne. What a waste of booze.

I can't breathe out of my left nostril. A melancholy tune plays in my head. It's the first bit of a Christmas carol that I've heard for the first time this year.

Little donkey .... little donkey ... little donkey.

It plays over and over again in my head.

I think I was ok last night. Blood dripped from my eyes down my ghoulishly white cheeks. The other guests were impressed. The crying blood made up for the fact that my fangs fell out before I had finished my first glass of wine. Everyone else who had acquired adhesive fangs had had the same problem.

What a rip off.

I think I was ok. My Man complimented my cleavage.

Was it too much?

Perhaps I danced a little too exuberantly when Beyonce came on. I chatted amiably with the random Japanese guests who spoke no English and took lots of photos. I taught one of them a phrase: the more the merrier. I even wrote it down for him. He smiled wide and gave me a thumbs up while nodding vigorously. My Man and others watched from across the room. They told me the Japanese man liked my cleavage too.

I think I was ok.

I need more water.

Happy Christmas!

To all my blogger friends, you should know who you are ... from the mountains and villages of Spain (and the Basque Country) to the sands of Arabia to the little antique-everything shops in The North and the football loving, country-music home in The South, and the football loving transplants down under and everyone in-between ... you guys mean something to me ... something unexpected, something good. Have a good one! xxx, Ellie.